The smells of you

A two year old is many things. A talking parrot and a pleaser. A snuggle bug and an emotion-fuelled runner.

Having a two year old is a sensory explosion of high pitched wailing when she falls down a two inch ledge and an abundance of wet, boogied kisses for every occasion. Her hand reaches for mine, if her bum is not already cemented on my left hip, as she buzzes with excitement to absorb the sounds of passing cars, galloping horse feet in front of her, the flight of nervous chickens being chased, the snapping of dogs when their tails get pulled too hard.

Everything is awesome when you’re two. It is a boundless experiment in cause and effect. Which is why she ain’t got no time to waste sitting on a toilet in a sterile, sparkly clean washroom- how civil and boring. And yet, by two years old, parents ain’t got one more brain cell left to remember to carry around diapers and wipes.

And such begins the smelly ride.

Because their bowel and their bladder.

A two year old’s ability to drop a deuce on a busy sidewalk is unwavering- she has the ability to declare the need for a potty at the exact same time said bodily fluid is running between her legs and she pulls her dress up to her neck.

What is important to note here is a two year old does not discriminate between chosen locations for said activity. No longer will I assume any log on a sidewalk to belong to the canine species- that shit is most definitely, possibly, of the toddler variety- especially if it’s right in front of a busy restaurant door in downtown Lunenburg, or right at the bottom of a city playground slide, or on the yellow paint separating my pride from all else in the parking lot at the Bulk Barn, and the list goes on.

Never will I assume there is not pee on our persons. There is most definitely urine everywhere, but whether I’ve concealed it by pulling her in close against my body is the question. But if you’ve read the above, it is the least of our worries and is treated as such- it’s basically yellow water. But yes, we are a moving exhibit of the ever lingering odour of stale pee. We stink- but I blame it on the cat.

There is always a fermenting piece of fruit wedged between seats in the car, making my vehicle rank of both vomit from the other crevices I can’t reach, and boozy apple cider. There are always dirty panties in the dash. (See above). Step in, if you dare.

My house is a bomb, obviously, but it’s when you travel with a two year old that you realize how much you get away with at home. Because out in the world, you are always running away from something she’s just done- usually, it has to do with piss. So when she points and exclaims ‘I pee’d it!’ in the produce section in the Superstore with a beaming smile of pride, a mother simply shakes her head to the passerby claiming she has no idea what her toddler just said, despite the fact the cart seat is dripping piss onto said person’s feet and pooling in front of their free smoothie sample section. Guilty as charged of inhaling one’s weight in strawberry kiwi delight.

There are no solid poops in a two year old’s world, since their sustenance exists only by means of said smoothies above, or salty pepperoni. As such, even when she makes it to the potty, one can only tell which hole it came out of by colour alone. When it’s purple, and smeared across the seat of the potty, the back of her dress and on her left hand too, from her inability to sustain from blueberries in any form, you can trust that one’s a poop. When it’s been dumped by said toddler “into the toilet,” but you thought someone finally took up mopping because it’s actually nowhere near the toilet and is actually a seeping puddle in the hallway, hiding itself under the clean laundry pile, the deep freezer and the washer and all the electronic devices, you can trust that one’s a pee.

Yes, at two we are done with diapers. I no longer wipe poop from a labia and I no longer carry wrapped, contained turds on the floor of my car. Oh no, now we are enlightened. Now, pees and poos are free to take up residence in as many locales as her little juicy butt desires. They call this phenomena freedom, but I’ll let you decide.

So the next time you smell anything off-putting, anything of the bodily fluid variety in particular, suspect with certainty a two year old was on the scene. But because you feel bad for me, blame it on a mangy stray cat.